Whipping Boy
by CompleteLackOfSurprise
Summary: Irene/Moriarty fic with an appearance by our favourite Consulting Detective ;) Irene receives a call from a local client who claims to be in need of punishment, but will a seemingly casual encounter turn into something unexpected? First chapter rated T for themes but possibly M for later chapters. Feedback is appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

Irene gazed at her reflection in the mirror, her silhouette forming a perfect hourglass. She did not, however, share this view of her own appearance. Her hands lifted her breasts as if she were willing them to stay in that position. Irene repeated this action a few times until she reminded herself, as she did each day, that no one had ever complained, let alone mentioned the size of her chest. "They want you." She uttered. "They all want you." Her fingers smoothed down her dress as she spoke; it was a floor-length, midnight blue frock with lace around the hem and across the ribcage, exposing the subtle rise of her cleavage and the fragile bands of rib beneath.

Interrupting an incoming thought regarding her plans for the evening, Irene's phone buzzed on the dresser, rousing her hairbrush and a set of exquisite perfumes into momentary animation. "Yes?" She said with authority. The line was silent for a few beats and then a deep, lyrical voice emerged; "I've been a naughty boy…" The caller began, his tone playful and yet utterly submissive. Irene tried to repress a smile but it surfaced nonetheless. "What have you done now, you filthy creature?" She stood in the arch of her wardrobe, her left hand on her hip as she observed herself once more.

"Planting bombs can be such a tough job. I feel like I deserve a good spanking for all the lives I've endangered." The caller whimpered, his breath almost fogging up the receiver. Irene closed the wardrobe, resting her back against the cool wood. "Oh, you _have_ been wicked! I think I'm going to have to come over there and punish you. Be ready in fifteen minutes and leave your door unlocked. If I have to knock then I will not rest until you've begged for mercy at least three times." Needing to say no more, Irene ended the call and with a swift whirl of her gown, turned to leave the room.

Thinking twice about her current outfit, she soon returned to the wardrobe and retrieved two folded parcels of silk and lace. "Now this…" She whispered. "Is more appropriate." Unfolding them she laid out the garter belt and lustrous black satin bra on her bed along with fishnet pantyhose and her favoured riding crop. It took her only minutes to slip off the silken garb and put on the lingerie set, carefully attaching the garters to her thigh length pantyhose. It was like a second skin, feeling the delicate fabric framing her curves in a way that no other item of clothing ever could. The finishing flourish was to adorn her favourite black suede coat with its plumage of pearlescent fur around the collar.

"I'm going out. Hold my calls." Irene instructed her assistant, Kate, who then proceeded to follow her like a loyal lap dog until they both reached the front door. "Where are you going Miss Adler?" The girl asked, her eyes damp with pure, almost naïve adoration. She held the door open for her boss. "Another day, another client." She replied. "Another sinner seeking punishment." Irene's smile radiated, causing the younger woman to fight senselessly against the urge to swoon. Without another word, Irene crossed the threshold and walked with irrefutable conviction to her Jaguar XK; an undeniable beast of an automobile in liquored black with vinyl seats and a new licence plate that read: WH1P3M.

The sky was dense with the promise of evening thunder and a warm, heavenly breeze carried with it the notion of danger. The wind pooled around Irene's collar, thrilling her every nerve as she closed the door of the driver's seat and rouged her lipstick one last time. The woman glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror, running her tongue over her pristine white teeth. "Look out, Jim…" Her eyes widened, "I'm coming to get you."


	2. Chapter 2 - Show Us What You Got

Moriarty straightened his tie in front of the mirror. As he did so his head bobbed from side to side, momentarily alleviating his mental anguish. His flat wasn't very spacious but the décor was impeccable; the walls were the shade of ecru shell, the carpet as lush as rich Bermuda grass. It was his home away from home, his real home being in an undisclosed location that not even his closest associate had access to. It was an image that he simply could not bear; his humble, cosy abode being used and abused by clients and rivals alike. A certain Consulting Detective in particular would be sure to make his mark there.

Jim crossed the room and stood before his lavish, queen-sized bed. _She'll be here soon_, he thought, _and I will once again have purpose. At least for a few hours._ It was a bleak thought, but the kind of thing that crossed his mind more often than not these days. Sprawling out on his mattress, Moriarty took a deep breath in and then let his chest heave out, hollow as an icy crevasse to which no creature had dared to ventured alone. He tried to fathom, as his eyes drifted towards the ceiling, how someone in such a powerful position as himself could be so revered and yet so goddamn lonesome all the time. _I suppose this would be the time to decide_, he lamented, _whether I should kill Sherlock or convince him to join me._

These thoughts soon evaporated at the sound of the front door opening and then being shut with a force unlike Jim's own. He knew it was her before he even heard her heels clattering against the hard wood flooring and then her voice rose above his own thundering heartbeat, filling the room with warmth and absolute darkness. "Lay spread out on the bed." Irene commanded. Jim followed her curt instructions, spreading his legs and arms so that he looked as though he were in the process of creating a linen-sculpted snow angel.

"Good boy. Now…tell me exactly what it is that you've done?" She stood at the side of the bed, peering down at Moriarty, her riding crop hovering under his chin. Jim gulped, the tiny peak of his Adam's apple jutting out to kiss the cruel leather. "I've been blackmailing people again." He moaned, giving her a flash of those puppy-dog eyes. Irene met Jim's feigned gentility with a firm thwack on the chest. Jim flinched at first but as the shock registered, a malevolent smile washed across his face. "Don't you dare pull that trick on me. You've been a terrible, wicked boy and I'm going to make sure you get your comeuppance." Her eyes narrowed as she spoke, the riding crop now tracing a lazy line down Jim's torso and then finally resting between his legs.

Moriarty raised his hips as he felt the slight touch of Irene's whip against his crotch. "Now…" she began, "I want you to do exactly as I say, without exception. Is that understood?" Her voice began to drone, his brain failing to focus on anything besides the subtle pressure against his erection. This did not go unnoticed and feeling scorned, the dominatrix flexed her wrist and with sharp force, cracking her whip against his inner thigh. As soon as the leather struck him, Jim's head fell back in a delirious mix of agony and arousal.

"Turn over." Irene said flatly. Moriarty's eyes lit up with bristling excitement.  
>"I'm sorry Miss Adler." He replied, his apology thinly veiled and fuelled by the selfish need for punishment. "That's enough from you! I said…turn over." After a second of hesitation, a tactic Moriarty deployed in order to savour every second of frustration and authority in his mistress's eyes, Jim turned over, his arms crossed beneath his chest. With her client's back turned, Irene peeled off her coat and proceeded to straddle Moriarty's hips, his backside slightly raised. The heat of their bodies, separated only by a stretch of fabric, was enough to get Jim excited once more and he raised his hips in response.<p>

"Down boy." Irene mouthed into her client's ear. Moriarty tried with immense difficulty to calm himself down, but instead settled for grinding his hips into the mattress. Feeling his eager movements, Irene slid her fingers around the neck of the whip and then reached forward, holding the cane like a bridle against Jim's throat. "Ugh." He groaned, swallowing painfully against the riding crop. Moriarty's face began to redden as he strained against both the whip and his mistress. He didn't mind the latter.

"Goodness, you're like a mutt in heat. Are you going to calm down or am I going to have to give you a good spanking?" As she made her proposition, Irene traced the crop down his back, resting above his tailbone like a hovering insect waiting to strike. "I don't think I can calm myself, Miss Adler." Jim moaned softly, pressing his cheek against the feathery lap of his pillow. "You're going to have to spank me."

Irene paused for a few moments in which she took Moriarty's suit jacket off and then unbuttoned the man's shirt, leaving his tie just as it had been. His skin was just as she had envisioned, pale yet toned, a fine specimen that could even have matched her favourite detective. _Brainy is the new sexy_, she reminded herself, _and Moriarty is certainly on par with Sherlock Holmes when it comes to intelligence and, well, stubbornness._ The thought of Sherlock sent Irene into action; she grasped his tie - navy blue with tiny silver threads worming their way into semi-visible squares like a geometrical illusion – and pulled it backward towards the nape of his neck.

The woman now had him like a dog on a leash, just where she wanted him; eager and full of pretence. The whip came down hard on the first strike, startling Moriarty as he plunged his face further into the pillow. "This will teach you not to hurt innocent people, won't it?" Irene struck him again, following the blow by softly rubbing herself against her client's behind. Jim began to moan as his mistress decreased the time between each strike. "Are you going to stop being such an evil bastard? Are you, Jim?" Her voice rose above her client's groans and hearty sighs.

"I'm so bad, Miss Adler. I'm so goddamn twisted. Make me beg for a glimmer of mercy." Jim hadn't opened his eyes since the first blow, his lips damp with lustful intent. Just as Irene was analysing whether Moriarty had been chastised severely enough to deserve the reward of her lips on his, a faint buzz echoed through the room. They both froze. "What was tha-" Just as Irene opened her mouth to speak, a low creak sounded from the same spot as before. Jim had turned pale, his eyes wide as tree hollows, the pupils grown dark and expansive.

After a few minutes of silence and immobility, there was a loud beep and then a gruff sigh of indignation from Jim's wardrobe. "Well, I can't very well stay in here _now_, can I?" A musical voice chimed from within. Sherlock slid the door across, flopping his legs out like a child on a chair that is much too tall for their stature. He then leapt out, tucking his phone into his chest pocket while mumbling, "John always texts me at the worst possible moment."

Irene couldn't believe he was here, in Moriarty's apartment of all places, but more astonishingly, she couldn't believe that she was grinning from ear to ear! "Mr Holmes…" She tutted. "You've got some explaining to do." Sherlock was blushing like a teenager who'd been caught with his girlfriend in the backseat of his car. "I wasn't…" His eyes creased up in feigned disgust. "You know…" He was beginning to stutter now. "And more importantly, what are you doing with the most dangerous man in Britain? Straddling him like a young bronco, I might add."

Moriarty straightened his tie, pausing in a moment of absolute excruciation when he realised he wasn't wearing a shirt. "I thought your brother was the most dangerous man in Britain." He thought aloud, trying to shake off the embarrassment. Needless to say, it didn't work to his advantage. "Well, now that I know that you're powerless after a five minute session of harmless spanking, Mycroft has probably reclaimed the top spot."

"What _are_ you here for then if you weren't perving on Miss Adler and myself?" Moriarty strode back into his true nature, reaching for his suit jacket across the bed. Irene's brow pricked up as she waited for Sherlock's answer. "I have my reasons." Holmes was talking like a petulant child, his eyes failing to meet either of his competitors.

"Were you spying on me, Sherlock?" The amusement was apparent in Jim's voice, his cheeks lighting up for a different reason now. The detective said nothing. "Were you trying to gain a bit of insight into my life outside of work? To see if I act as sweetly as I do whenever we meet." He puckered his lips as if to say _I am the only one who has the power to make me feel inadequate._ Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to be suffering from emotional whiplash.

"First of all, I was not spying on you. I was merely doing some…research. You're lucky I didn't send John to peruse your apartment, he's a lot more prudish than he lets on. One sight of you two kinking things up and he'd have shrieked like a girl." An abrupt smile touched his lips but then the uncomfortable nature of the situation began to weigh down on his shoulders. "Do they get more prudish than a virgin Detective living with his same-sex life partner?" Moriarty was beyond smug.

Irene, however, was happy to watch as both men shot remarks at each other, one after the other like a slow paced and well thought out game of chess. "I'll have you know that I'm a very experienced…lover." The word was completely alien on Sherlock's lips, stirring a wave of soft laughter from both Irene and Jim. As soon as it had passed his lips, he wished he could revoke the damn phrase. "And so, being a….experienced lover, you've experimented with the kinkier side of sex, I suppose?" Miss Adler nipped at the corner of her lower lip.

"Well, of course." Sherlock stared at the carpet, noticing in his precise way that it had only recently been shampooed, perhaps three days ago at the earliest. The other two shared a look of agreement, a knowing glance that alerted them both to their superiority in the situation. "Of course you have." Irene began to patronise the detective but in his current state of humiliation, he neglected to notice. "Ever used handcuffs?" The woman pressed, eager to reveal further vulnerability.

"Well…yes." He lied. Irene tongued the soft pad of her cheek and then turning to Moriarty with a sudden rush of excitement, motioned to him to fetch something from the beside drawer. "That is if you still keep them there." She said, knowingly. Jim did as instructed and retrieved a set of sterling silver handcuffs, passing them to his mistress who balanced them on her index finger like a clothes hook. "Well then…show us what you got, Mr Holmes."


	3. Chapter 3 - A Pressing Issue

p style="margin: 20px 0px; font-family:  
>Arial, Helvetica, Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;<br>text-align: justify;"The handcuffs were weightier than he expected; he held them, a sphere in each hand, palms clammy and beginning to shake as he contemplated the task at hand. Irene had cocked an eyebrow, standing before him with her hands on her hips like an expectant school ma'am. "What are you waiting for, stud?"  
>She teased. Jim had been sitting patiently on the bed, a strong sense of invasion in witnessing his cosy little apartment being taken over by the two people he both revered and loathed above all others; he was left with an air of distress tinged with an inhuman lust to please his competitors.p 


	4. Chapter 4 - Final Chapter

p style="margin: 20px 0px; font-family:  
>Arial, Helvetica, Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;<br>text-align: justify;"Irene wanted, more than anything now,  
>to be naked. Her two clients, no, emplaythingsem,  
>were clutching at each other on the plump duvet, their stray legs intertwining like some feral plant. At the sight of their eager display, she suddenly had an idea that would get things moving along.<br>Irene reached around with her right hand and effortlessly squeezed at the clasp of her bra, the thin lacy apparel tumbling to the floor as she loosened her grip. Her nipples puckered beneath the gentle,  
>constant stream of the air conditioning. Next to go were her panties,<br>the fragile material slipping past the soft flesh of her thighs and then pooling round her ankles. She kicked them away like a demure burlesque artist and then began rolling down her stockings./p 


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